


The Nameless

by thricetomine



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Lipogram, M/M, Oral Sex, Witches and curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thricetomine/pseuds/thricetomine
Summary: A witch steals Geralt’s epithet. It’s difficult to know who he is and what he’s for without it. // a lipogram on the letter W
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	The Nameless

The contract that brings them to the hinterland village is to dispose of the tendency of a sorceress, resident in the spire at the crest of a nearby bluff overlooking an ancient seabed, to abscond the firstborn of every sheep or goat for a hundred miles around, such tendency persevering for five generations or longer. The cost of the mounting losses, at long last, had exceeded the cost of contracting Geralt to mitigate them.

"Should've hired you five generations ago," says Jaskier, from a bench in the corner of the local tavern. "Sounds to me like they only doubled their expenditure in the end by delaying it, didn't save themselves a thing."

"I'm going alone," says Geralt the next morning, and Jaskier doesn't argue. He sets off astride Roach up the road to the bluff, hazy through distant fog, dissipating on the approach.

The parapet surrounding the fortress, and the spire behind it, are pale and polished smooth, doubling the searing glare of the rising sun, and forcing Geralt to clap a protective hand over his eyes.

"Sorceress," he calls.

_No need to tell me your reason for coming_ , rings a voice in triplicate, bell-like and clear, split into octaves and an intervening fifth. _I foresee such things. But I cannot acquiesce to you, except in trade._

"Tell me, then," says Geralt. "If you seek something in return, say it."

_I'll take it, and you'll see_ , rings the voice, and he chokes, airless, around something being ripped from his throat, as if through physical force; the feeling of icy fingers grasping, hauling back, and some substance in their grip. A sudden gaping absence makes itself felt behind his ribs, some jagged lack.

"Tell me," he tries to say again, but his lungs fail him. The last thing he sees before he sinks to the cobbled road is the blazing glare of the sun reflected back from the spire, and then nothing.

It's dusk by the time he comes to, roused by the tickling flare of Roach's nostrils and her breath hot in his ear. He hauls himself astride her again, and she turns in the dark and sets off, across the cobbled road, into the adjacent field, then through it. He nearly loses his grip on consciousness again soon after, and sags over her shoulder, heedless of their direction.

The direction is the village: Roach has never failed him. But the route is a broad zigzag overland, off the road, encountering no one, and several days pass before she returns him to the hinterland village, bleary-eyed and trembling like an aspen leaf, to slink back into the inn behind the tavern, and to Jaskier, engaged in a duet alongside a hurdy-gurdy.

In his chest the jagged lack, still piercing agony, is finally softened at its edges by the syncopated rhythm of the lute and the lull of the drone beneath.

"Do you remember me," says Geralt, once they've finished, and the hurdy-gurdy girl has collected her share of their payment and left.

"Of course I remember you," says Jaskier. "You're Geralt of Rivia. The infamous, the—it'll come to me, don't fret, hang on, the, ah yes, the Butcher—"

"Not by that name," says Geralt. "A different one."

"Just Geralt then, that's all," says Jaskier.

"There's another," says Geralt. "I'm sure of it."

"Come to bed, just Geralt, you're covered in filth," says Jaskier, and leads him to the backroom.

The bard undresses him layer by layer, and he’s shivering by the time he’s stripped to the chemise. Jaskier, to the contrary of his protestations, apparently unperturbed by the filth, bears him tenderly to the canvas mattress on its bed of rushes, and smooths the coverlet over him.

In the middle of the night Geralt stirs to the sound of a stiff breeze rattling through the eaves, and the delicate throb of an erection against his thigh, and moves to cup a hand over it.

"Go back to sleep, Geralt of Rivia," murmurs Jaskier. "No need for that, you're shattered."

On the contrary, he has every need: the agony in the pit of his chest has risen as far as his throat, has formed the shape of a lack in the centre of his mouth, further back than he can curl his tongue to reach; he shifts positions to curl it around the tip of Jaskier's cock, instead, and the bard curses softly and presses himself into Geralt's mouth, into the seat of the ache.

The bitter taste of Jaskier's come lingers in the space of the lack for hours after, and Geralt inhales deeply through it, as if to preserve it in his lungs, in place of the—the thought is unfinishable, and though he feels more like himself than he had since he'd made his trek up the bluff days ago, the absence still looms too large to articulate.

"Are you going to get it back," says Jaskier, gently, the next afternoon, after affording Geralt the luxury of an extravagant lie-in. "The thing you're missing. I've seen you before, after someone took something of yours, and you've looked like this. Spit it out, then."

"I think I had another name," says Geralt. "And she—took it from me. If I don't remember it, and you don't. She must have."

"Not Geralt?" asks Jaskier. "I think Geralt is lovely, it suits you."

"I'd like the choice, is all," says Geralt. "To be called a name or not."

"Suit yourself," says Jaskier. "I'll be here if you come back, after."

"Keep Roach here," says Geralt. "Couldn't bear it if she got stolen, too."

The road north to the sorceress's crumbling fortress is shorter than Geralt recalled it being, from the circuitous return journey, though it's dark by the time he arrives, to find no one. The spire that had seemed so grand in the dizzying glare of day is diminished by moonlight alone, lightless and empty. The parapet is collapsed, the cobbled road in ruins.

"Sorceress," calls Geralt.

_The Butcher of Blaviken,_ rings the voice, as though from inside his skull.

"My name," he says to the fragments of parapet smashed on the cobbles at his feet. "Give it back."

_If you insist_ , the voice murmurs. _I found I've no use for it myself_.

"Spit it out," says Geralt.

_Witcher_ , shrieks the night, and an echo from the valley of the ancient sea shrieks it back again from behind him, alone at the bluff's edge.

“Witcher,” says Jaskier, later on, both of them safely back indoors, and Roach just outside. "On the tip of my tongue, this entire time, can't believe I forgot it."

He’d heard it, too, at the village gates, out of the mouth of a guardsman sneered, and hissed under someone’s breath as the tavern door closed behind him; but on Jaskier's lips, it's not a curse, only a name like any other, and more neutral, even, than most.


End file.
